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“What would I need to do that for? All I wanna do is play ball.”
“You know, for a backup plan, in case baseball doesn’t last forever or pan out.” I say in a parental tone of voice. I’ve seen enough guys in baseball injure themselves and never play again to know it’s always smart to have a back-up plan, hell with anything it is.
“Nah, I’ll figure it all out if something comes along. I was born to play ball, and I’ll play ball until I can’t no more,” he replies throwing another sunflower seed into his mouth. He works his mouth around to crack the seed and then spits out the shell.
“You’re from Tennessee, correct?” I ask.
“Yes Ma’am,” he says nodding his head.
“And how do you feel about coming to San Diego?” I ask.
“I’m looking forward to being surrounded by beauty. Beautiful women, as yourself,” he nods to me. ”Beautiful weather, and beaches and landscapes.”
“It really is a beautiful city.” I agree with him.
“So, tell me…” he spits out another shell. “What has you interviewing baseball players? You like the sport?”
“I do.” I nod. I rustle through my gambit of notes that I ask each player.
“Who is your baseball idol?” I ask carrying on with my rounds of questions.
“That’s easy. Mark McSweede. He carved the way for guys in Tennessee to become what they idolized, and I’m no different.”
I make a mental note to ask Gunnar about McSweede later. I continue with my interview and then move to the next person. I ask different questions to make sure my write-ups don’t all sound the same. By the end of the morning, I’m talked out.
I’m sitting a table in the back of the stadium cafeteria, when Gunnar and Bently come to join me. I close my laptop and move aside some of my notes so the guys can sit with me.
“Busy day?” Bently asks as I offer the guys a quick smile.
Two more players join our table and wave in greetings as they sit down. Soon, the table is full of big guys with too much food on their plates, all talking animatedly about their day. They have a practice game tomorrow that they’re all talking about to drown out my thoughts and the attention away from me.
“You okay?” Gunnar whispers.
“Some of the interviews today have been like pulling teeth.” I reply.
“Do I need to put anybody straight?” Gunnar puffs out his chest in jest.
“No, not at all.” I shake my head and take a bite out of my sandwich.
The door slamming open and then shut at the opposite side of the room directs everyone’s attention. As the team coaches walk into the cafeteria and the room goes silent as they all stand in a line just inside the door, demanding attention.
“Listen up!” The coach shouts. He waits for everyone’s attention to the front of the room and to quiet down.
With his hands on his hips, his stance rigged and his expression stern. He waits several moments before speaking up again.
“We have a week and a half left for Spring Training; some of you guys still have a lot to prove to the team if you want a spot in the line-up. If you want to be on the roster, then man up and show us your shit. We are getting tired of waiting around for you guys to show your stuff. We’re not waiting around anymore. See the board for the line-up for tomorrow’s game. I want everyone to be on their A-games. We’ll be keeping a watchful eye on each and every one of you.” The group of guys hoot and holler, some of the grumble under their breath and the rest of them are silent. “Chainsaw!” he shouts locking eyes with me.
I stand and wait for him to continue.
“My office,” he shouts and then turns on his heel.
A slew of “Oh’s” echo as if I’m getting sent to the principal’s office. My eyes on Gunnar with a confused look on his face as I shrug. I bend and peck Gunnar on the cheek before I say my goodbyes to the table, zigzag through the cafeteria until I’m in the hallway, and make my way down to the coach’s office.
I knock gently on the door and hear a muffled enter greeting and as I open the door - he’s sitting down behind his desk. He folds his hands and leans forward as he waits for me to sit down.
“You know that I enjoy the thorough coverage that your agency does with the team,” he starts immediately. “I don’t want this information to reflect on my thoughts of you and all that you’ve done for us. This was by no means my decision, but the ownership. They have signed a contract with another agency for all our media relations.”
Panic engulfs me.
